A journey to find my father through interviews, red wine, coffee and travels through our past.

Friday, May 8, 2015

An Apology To My Grieving Mother on Mother’s Day

Dear Mommy,

I finally
realized that we grew up with a similar but different struggle – I without a
father from the age of eight and you without a mother from that same age. You
go through every Mother’s Day not only as my mother, but also as a daughter
looking out on the horizon wondering about your own. The word unfair is insufficient.
While I was busy missing Daddy, you endured missing him without your own mother.
It seems safe to guess that my own loneliness, overwhelming at times, is
nothing compared to yours.

A couple of days ago, I called you
for help with a parenting problem. That’s not true; I called to whine. My own
daughter checkmated me when she used scotch tape to create a human-sized spider
web during a time-out in her room. You spared me whatever judgment I deserved
and just listened. That’s not something I’ve been very good at doing for you. Who
did you call when I had a tantrum?

For over 35 years, you protected
the bond between us even when I fought against it with ever fiber of my being.
I want you to know that I understand why you hold on so tightly. I am sorry
that you had to endure my pushing away from you like all children do when so
many others left your life too early.

Perhaps I
finally grew up the day you took me to Brooklyn. You showed me the house where
your mother grew up, her family’s shop, and her high school. It is not lost on
me that it’s the same one where you were a student teacher.At Holy Cross cemetery, as my feet crushed pure snow on my walk to our family plot, I expected to feel some intense emotion related to my own life. All
I felt was sad for you and embarrassed for me. Sad because I never thought of
you as being sad, but you must have been. Embarrassed because I never thought
of how we share not only the hurt of losing Daddy but of being without a parent
for most of our lives.I saw your
strength but not your pain.

When you told me about the day your
mother died, you said, “I remember sitting in a chair in the living room. The
doctor walked out the front door. Our house was silent and dark. No one told
the children. I knew my mother was dead. It was another time and adults behaved
differently toward children.” You were alone with that knowledge. If I could
change anything about your life it would be to go back to the moment and tell
you that you will be loved in your life. You are loved.

I contrast that with that February morning
the phone rang in our apartment.New
York Hospital called to say that Daddy died. You hung up the phone, looked me
in the eye, and said only the truth, “Daddy died. Now that it’s just you and me,
that means that you are the person in the world I love more than anyone else.”
After that, we laid in your bed for what seemed like hours. We respected each
other’s silence, but we did it together.

I think of the many days we drove
along the beach, together but silent. My favorite day was when I was in middle school. Somehow I managed to suspend being a thirteen-year-old girl and return to a semi-human state for an entire Sunday in early spring. You parked the blue Volvo at the deserted public beach.

When we reached the top of the stairs, it started to rain. We stood on benches under the partial cover of a wooden lookout tower. After a few minutes, we stepped out into the rain, looked at the grey ocean, and let the rain and sea spray wash our ancient hurts.

Yesterday, it rained during my own
daughter’s softball practice. Like you and I, all those years ago on the beach,
she looked up at the sky, closed her eyes and let the water wash over her. When I felt the rain on my skin, I missed that day. I hope she'll never have the kind of pain I've known but if she doesn't she'll also never know the bond that such pain creates.

“My favorite smell is rain-air,”
she said.

“Me too.” I said.

So after all this time I’ve spent
thinking about the smells that remind me of Daddy, I didn’t realize who my
favorite smell reminds me of. The smell of the air just as it starts to rain is
the smell of my connection to you. It will always be my favorite. Happy
Mother’s Day. I love you.